


Waiting for Anthony

by doomed_spectacles



Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absurd, Existentialism, Gen, Humor, Screenplay/Script Format, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27134491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomed_spectacles/pseuds/doomed_spectacles
Summary: Hastur and Ligur meet near a tree in a graveyard. They converse on a variety of subjects while waiting for someone who may or may not be coming.A tragicomedy in one act.HASTUR: He's late.LIGUR: Yeah. Nothing to be done.HASTUR: Guess so. I hate him. Thousands of years he’s been reporting in and thousands of years he’s been late. ‘Oh sorry there was traffic on the road to Rome’ or ‘I couldn’t get away from King Arthur, you know how chatty he is.’ Still, I keep picking times and places thinkin’ one day he won’t be late. And here he is. Late.LIGUR: Isn't.
Relationships: Hastur & Ligur (Good Omens)
Series: Spooky Omens: 13 Days of Halloween! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978405
Comments: 39
Kudos: 85
Collections: Genuary 2021, Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Waiting for Anthony

**Author's Note:**

> Racket's 13 days of Halloween, Day 3: Graveyard!
> 
> Apologies to Samuel Beckett. Like, yeah. Sorry. Several lines are lifted almost verbatim from Waiting for Godot. Also, no spookies here, so sorry. <3

_A graveyard. A tree._

_Night._

\--

_Two heads emerge, squelching as they rise from the mud. Faces appear slowly, then the tops of shoulders. They blink wet earth from inhuman eyes. When the rest of their bodies emerge, the pair resemble mud wrestlers who forgot to remove their coats before commencing a match._

_They look around at the headstones as if expecting company._

HASTUR: He's late.

LIGUR: Yeah. Nothing to be done.

HASTUR: Guess so. I hate him. Thousands of years he’s been reporting in and thousands of years he’s been late. ‘Oh sorry there was traffic on the road to Rome’ or ‘I couldn’t get away from King Arthur, you know how chatty he is.’ Still, I keep picking times and places thinkin’ one day he won’t be late. And here he is. Late.

LIGUR: Isn't.

_The night is silent but for a breeze ruffling what leaves remained on the mostly bare tree. Hastur grunts. Ligur sniffs and puts his hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat. He’s not cold but it seems like something to do._

HASTUR: I chose this graveyard because it's muddy and it'll get all over his shoes. Him and his stupid snake shoes. ‘Least you’re here.

LIGUR: Yeah. All the same. He’s late.

_A pause. In the distance, an owl hoots, adding ambiance to their sojourn. Ligur nods in appreciation._

HASTUR: Cuz he's a snake, that's what he is.

LIGUR: ... Yeah.

HASTUR: Nothing worse than a snake. Nothing. 'Cept maybe, raccoon. Or somethin'.

LIGUR: ‘Spose.

HASTUR: Said he had something big cooking. Something about a galaxy exploding in people's faces.

LIGUR: Yeah?

HASTUR: Don't really see why that's our business. How does that help our Lord Satan? If a galaxy blows up, unless it's _this_ one, who cares?

LIGUR: _(Ponders.)_ S’pose the people in the blown-up galaxy care.

HASTUR: S’pose. Guess it’s nice, blowing up galaxies. Lots of screaming, probably.

LIGUR: Yeah.

_Hastur ponders the ramifications of the death of an entire galaxy. He thinks he might like to see it, but he’d never tell anyone that. Least of all Crowley. His boots are untied and don’t fit right. Mud starts seeping into the toes. It’s cold and he wiggles his toes but this just makes the mud spread._

HASTUR: How long do we have to wait in this bloody graveyard, anyway? I mean I've got worse things to do. Far, far worse. Don't you have worse things to do than wait for that ginger bastard in a muddy graveyard?

LIGUR: Yeah.

HASTUR: Are you ever going to say anything other than yeah?

_Ligur doesn’t say anything. He clamps his mouth shut to avoid saying “yeah” and shrugs his shoulders._

HASTUR: There you go shrugging your shoulders at me like I’m the bad guy here. You’re the one not holding up his end of the sodding conversation! I mean, I thought if we had to wait here in this cold, muddy, stinking graveyard that at least-

LIGUR: Are you sure you told him _this_ graveyard? On _this_ evening?

HASTUR: I said _this_ graveyard. Tonight. I think.

LIGUR: You think.

HASTUR: I think. I said it was this graveyard. You got me questioning.

LIGUR: Well how long are we gonna wait for him?

HASTUR: If we wait long enough, he’ll come. Then we can kill him.

LIGUR: Right.

HASTUR: We could kill him, couldn’t we?

LIGUR: Don’t ask me. You’re the one who told him to come here.

HASTUR: If we leave, we’re the fools.

LIGUR: Fools. Right. But if we wait-

HASTUR: I don’t know how much longer I can wait.

LIGUR: Think of it this way- how much time do you have?

HASTUR: Time? Time’s infinite, yeah. Yesterday, today, makes no difference ‘till the end.

LIGUR: Then we have to wait, by that logic.

HASTUR: There’s mud in my shoes.

_Silence. Ligur starts pacing. He makes a lap around two headstones several times, feet sticking in the mud with every step. Hastur is becoming increasingly agitated. He stares up at the tree. Ligur rounds the gravestones and comes to stand beside Hastur once more._

LIGUR: We could sing.

HASTUR: Why?

LIGUR: I dunno. It’s a thing they do. To pass the time. 

HASTUR: It’ll pass either way, won’t it? Regardless of your stupid song.

LIGUR: Maybe. Maybe not.

_Ligur starts to sing. It's a terrible sound. Like a cheese grater being dragged against an unhappy stone._

_(Singing.)_ This is the song that never ends.  
Yes, it goes on and on, my friends.  
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was and- 

_He stops singing and makes a face - like the song tasted rotten in his mouth._

Never mind. 

HASTUR: It’s absurd, singing. I remember singing. Up there. 

LIGUR: You do? 

HASTUR: All the choirs of angels chanting the same damn things all the time. Ridiculous. 

LIGUR: They don’t do it anymore. 

HASTUR: Oh. 

_Hastur looks again at the tree. He doesn’t think to wonder how Ligur knows what the choirs of angels get up to in their free time._

HASTUR: Didn’t help anyway. Time is irrelevant and we’re still stuck in this swamp waiting on that asshole Crowley.

LIGUR: Not like we have a choice. We wait here. We wait in Hell. Such is life.

HASTUR: What’s life got to do with it?

_Ligur shrugs._

HASTUR: We had a choice once. We made it. You and me. There was a choice, at one point.

LIGUR: Back then?

HASTUR: Back then. Rest is gravy, ‘spose.

LIGUR: Gravy?

_Hastur doesn’t reply. He walks over to the tree, wincing as more mud enters his shoes, and kicks it. He winces again._

HASTUR: I can’t go on waiting much longer.

LIGUR: That’s just what you think. What about that time in Constantinople? We lurked a lot in Constantinople. Quality lurking that was.

HASTUR: Don’t remind me of that!

_But he’s smiling. On him it looks wicked, like a toad about to release a slow poisonous slime that eventually wrecks the balance of the ecosystem around him._

LIGUR: See?

HASTUR: Let’s just go.

LIGUR: Fine.

_Neither moves._


End file.
